


More Tales of Gaersum

by Edoraslass, just_ann_now



Series: Tales of Gaersum [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, PWP, Weddings, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass, https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_ann_now/pseuds/just_ann_now
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Assorted drabbles and ficlets in the Gaersumverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fear 'Til Now Unknown

**Fear Til Now Unknown** , by Edoraslass

The men who came to me at the brothel were merchants, craftsmen, scholars – men with soft, uncalloused hands and skin unblemished except by age. Guards or soldiers had enough opportunity within the ranks, if their tastes ran to other men, and besides, they could not have paid what the house mistress asked for me. 

So it was a surprise to see how many scars Lord Boromir bore. I asked no questions, but I would sometimes study those scars, and wonder how he received them. When time had passed, and I became bolder and more certain that he did not object to me touching him unbidden, I would trace the marks with fingertips and tongue. His breath would become ragged, and he would close his eyes, seeming to focus on nothing but my gentle caresses. I was fascinated by the rough skin as proof of his valour in battle. 

Once while I thought he slept, I studied a angry scar on his thigh. It was only as long as my hand, but it had not been there three months before, when he had last visited me. For the first time, I felt something like fear for his safety. Of course I knew that he was the Captain-General of Gondor, our finest warrior, and in danger more often than not, but I had never been presented with such fresh, raw evidence. 

Greatly daring, I pressed my lips to the newly-healed wound, and immediately felt him stroking my hair. I looked up, afraid that I had awakened him, but Boromir only smiled, touched my face briefly, and told me of how he had lost his footing on a patch of mud while fighting an Orc. “It is only a scratch,” he told me, “and nothing to worry about.” His smile suddenly widened, became warmer. “Though I am grateful for your concern.” Then he leaned up and kissed me deeply, which always left me breathless, for even after so many months, I had not gotten used to him _wanting_ to kiss me. 

I half-expected that Boromir would want to have me again, but instead, he drew me to him, and I gladly settled myself in his arms. He drifted off to sleep almost immediately, as he always did. I lay awake for a bit longer, listening to his steady breathing, trying to convince myself that there was, in fact, no reason to worry about his safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift for half-elf-lost


	2. Mettarë Gifts

**Mettarë Gifts** , by Edoraslass

 

Gaersum’s mother had urged him to go with her to the tavern. “I do not wish to see you wait all night for one who may not appear,” she had said, startling him; he could not remember her ever before speaking of the arrangement with Lord Boromir. She had run her fingers through his curls, still damp from washing. “I would like it if you would accompany me, if only for a short time.”

Gaersum had never been able to resist his mother anything that was in his power to give, but it was the shadow of concern in her eyes which made him agree to go. He knew that his mother had never wholly approved of his association with the Lord Boromir; he also knew this was because she was afraid that her son will have his heart broken. 

He had not stayed long; he made certain his mother was enjoying herself, and spent a bit of time suspiciously watching one of the musicians who was casting meaningful glances at her. However, once it became clear that his mother returned the interest, he kissed her cheek in farewell and went home, pretending that he had not seen the sympathy in her dark eyes.

Now Gaersum sits on the bench in front of their small house, watching the revelers at the tavern at the other end of the courtyard. The music is lively, spirits are high, and laughter echoes through the night; he predicts the celebration will not wind down until the sun peeks over the horizon. The night is brisk, rather than cold, and his heavy cloak provides more than enough warmth. A year ago, he could not have afforded such fine wool, and he is grateful at the unexpected change in their fortunes. Without the Lord Boromir’s patronage, they would no doubt still be struggling for necessities such as food and fuel. 

Though he has told himself a hundred times not to hope, Gaersum still finds his mood sinking low. He knows that Boromir has the Steward’s banquet to attend, and it is still early yet, but this does not quiet a pang of disappointment. Certainly Gaersum could find someone with whom to pass the long night; he is not blind to the looks given to him by men and women alike, and if he had not met Boromir, he would be inclined to accept one of those silent offers. 

A great joyous shout arises from the tavern, and Gaersum cannot help but chuckle at the sound. It is rare to hear such merriment in their courtyard, and all at once, he does not wish to be apart from his neighbors. His mother is right; there is no point in sitting here brooding – if the Lord Boromir comes, he will surely know where to look for Gaersum. 

People are spilling out the front door of the tavern, and Gaersum has nearly reached the edge of the crowd when a voice stops him. “A joyous Mettarë to you.”

He turns, heart racing, willing himself to not seem overeager, but sure that his smile gives him away. “And to you, my lord.”

Boromir returns the smile, yet there is an unfamiliar expression on his face. “I do not wish to intrude on your celebration,” he says, and with a shock, Gaersum realizes that expression is hesitation. Boromir is not certain that he will be welcomed on this Longest Night, perhaps even thinks that Gaersum has a tryst planned.

Daringly, for they are standing in plain sight of any who look toward them, Gaersum reaches out and brushes the back of his hand down Boromir’s arm. “You are not intruding,” he says, voice low. “If you would allow me, I have….I have something for you.” He finds himself blushing furiously at his own forwardness – gifts are traditional on this night, but he is nervous at giving such a gift to Gondor’s Heir. 

Boromir only gives a broad smile that now holds no trace of uncertainty. “I will be glad to receive it.”

 

~*~

 

Boromir lies in the narrow bed, catching his breath; Gaersum is downstairs, fetching the wine which had been forgotten on the table in their rush. 

He sits up, reaches toward the sheet of parchment on the bedside table. It is a sketch of the marketplace, beautifully detailed, every line alive and realistic. He can almost hear the merchants shouting, the mutterings of the crowd; almost smell the scents of animals, people, roasting meats and of Minas Tirith herself.

This gift is no doubt the result of many hours’ work, and Boromir feels a pang of guilt, as he does so often in this room. Gaersum is pleasing company, and it is clear that he takes enjoyment from their time together. Of course Boromir takes enjoyment as well; not just in the physical act, but in being able to put aside his cares for a short time and spend time in the presence of someone who expects little from him. 

He had not planned to see Gaersum this night. No-one thinks it untoward if an unmarried man or woman seeks out a partner for the Longest Night, but for those who are somehow bound, there is often an undercurrent of promise. Though Boromir is fond of Gaersum, he had been concerned that to pass the Longest Night with him would perhaps lead the boy to make assumptions about the permanency of their arrangement. And of course he can make Gaersum no promises.

But the Steward’s banquet had seemed oppressive; amidst the revelry, Boromir had found himself restless and discontent. He had made no plans to meet with any man or woman, but all at once, he had realized that he did not wish to be alone this night, nor did he wish the solace of a stranger. He had been surprised to discover that he did, in fact, want to spend this festival with Gaersum; that had troubled him. Boromir had pondered this for some time until he grew tired of his own thoughts, and slipped away when it was late enough that no-one would question his absence.

Fortunately, he had purchased a gift for the boy some time ago; not for any occasion, simply on a whim: a case filled with fine brushes, inks, pens, pencils and paper. It had been a wise choice; Gaersum’s dark eyes had lit with something akin to greed when he opened the case, and the honest happiness on his face had eased some of Boromir’s conflict.

 _He has great talent_ , Boromir muses as he turns his attention back to the drawing. _There must be something I can do, someone I can show this to which will allow him to earn his living through his art._

Gaersum returns as he is chuckling at the detail of a child stealing cakes from a baker’s stall, and looks both proud and shy when he sees Boromir once again studying the drawing. “I am glad it meets your approval,” he says quietly as he pulls the cork from the bottle. “I…I was not sure what you would like to look on.”

Boromir stands, sets the sketch aside, and draws Gaersum to him. “It is skillful work,” he says, idly tracing Gaersum’s spine, feeling him shiver, “and I am indeed glad to receive it.” He takes the bottle, sets that aside as well, and bends to kiss him. The boy leans into him, hands eagerly roaming Boromir’s body, something he would not have done only a few months ago. 

Boromir bites back a gasp when Gaersum strokes the sensitive hollow of his hip. He  
pushes thoughts of Théodred aside, determined to appreciate this moment, this handsome, willing boy. He does not want to think on what he does not have. 

~*~

 

Just as it is Boromir’s habit to doze off rather quickly, it is Gaersum’s to try and stay awake for a bit longer. He savours this, when their warm bodies are entwined and they are both lax with completion and weariness. It is comforting to drift to sleep with Boromir’s strong arms draped around him.

Gaersum knows that this cannot last forever. He knows that someone else holds Boromir’s heart, and that he himself will never have such a claim on Gondor’s Heir. But he believes that Boromir must care for him, in some measure -why else would he appear on the Longest Night?

He must be content with this, for he knows that he cannot expect more. He refuses to think forward to the time when they must part; he is determined to appreciate this moment. He does not want to think on what he will one day no longer have.


	3. Aiming to Please

"Tell me what you like," Boromir murmured as he straddled the boy. His own pleasure, at the moment, was slow and relaxed. A quick coupling against the door had taken the first edge off of his need.

The boy's eyelashes flickered in surprise, though he kept his eyes closed, as always. 

"Your mouth," Gaersum finally whispered, so softly that Boromir would have thought he imagined it, if not for the soft flush rising. He chuckled to himself, then moved in closer.

"Here?" he asked, nuzzling Gaersum's throat, nipping at his ear, feeling the body quiver beneath him.

"Or here?" He ran his tongue along Gaersum's collarbone, then down to his belly, circling and laving each nipple in turn; the boy let out a soft sigh.

"Or here?" Slowly and deliberately he took him in his mouth, just a bit at a time, alternately licking and sucking, savoring the sound of Gaersum's strangled gasp as the boy began to stiffen. Boromir wanted to prolong the act, but by the sound of Gaersum's ragged breathing, that might not be possible. He could feel Gaersum' s fingers reaching down to brush against his hair, the first time he had ever touched him unbidden; a moment later Gaersum dug his fingers into Boromir's shoulders as his hips bucked and he cried out. Then Boromir slipped his hands under Gaersum's bottom, raising him up and entering him even as the boy still shuddered and gasped.

Later, as Gaersum lay asleep by his side, Boromir noticed with satisfaction the boy's slight smile, the utter relaxation of his body. _It's like taming a wild creature to my hand,_ Boromir thought. _I would not want the burden of his love, but I'm pleased by the gift of his trust._


	4. The Strong Silent Type

“I’ve not been here, myself,” Roäc said, pushing open the door, “but I hear _The Five Armies_ is a friendly enough place.” The tavern was dimly-lit and smelled agreeably of ale, roasting meat, and the sweat of hard-working men. He and the lad would fit right in, then, being thirsty and hungry and sweaty themselves.

Even though he’d worked side-by-side with Gaersum for a week, clearing rubble and debris throughout the City, he still didn’t quite understand him. Roäc thought of himself as a friendly enough sort, able to get along with most men (and women), so he found the boy’s continued shyness disconcerting. He seemed agreeable, and was certainly a good worker, but, by Nahar’s mane, why wouldn’t he ever talk? Perhaps some ale would loosen his tongue. 

Heading over to the long oaken bar, Roäc was surprised to see two mugs of frothy ale already being pushed in his direction. “On the house, it is, in thanks for what you Rohirrim did for us, coming along right when you did. We’d have been mashed, overrun, and that’s no lie.” Nodding his thanks, he carried the drinks over to the corner where Gaersum was sitting, already engrossed in sketching the tavern and its occupants. That was another thing Roäc had not gotten used to – the way the lad would sometimes stop whatever he was doing to whip out his sketchbook and draw. Strange things, too: a wain full of corpses, both human and orc; a spotted dog looking up mournfully from the doorstep of a burned-out house, a pile of broken crockery by a fountain. Not things you’d expect someone to draw, like horses or pretty girls or flowers. Odd.

“Why d’ye do that?” Roäc suddenly burst out. Then, realizing how abrupt it must have sounded, he added, “Draw everything like that.”

The boy stared at him blankly. “I don’t know. I just do; I have always needed to draw what I see.”

“What is in your sketchbook? Can you show me?” Roäc asked. There was a sudden flicker of, what? sadness? across the boy’s face; but then he smiled, and passed the sketchbook over. 

Nearly an hour they spent looking at the pictures, because the other patrons came over and looked, too. And as they looked, the ale and the talk kept on flowing.

“There’s Donal the cobbler; look! He was right pissed at what happened to his shop. Why d’ye think orcs would have chopped up all them shoes like that? What’s orcs got against shoes?”

“Is that the elf, and the dwarf, too, that fought alongside the new king? Storybook creatures, walking our streets! ‘Tis a wonder. And the horselords, too. A toast to the horselords!” And they all hoisted their mugs again.

“Ah, Faramir, bless him, so sad he looks. To have lost father and brother both … that’s a good likeness of him, lad.” Gaersum glowed at the compliment.

After a while Roäc stood up unsteadily. “I, we, thank you for your hospitality, but we must be going now. It has been an honor to meet you all. This fine tavern’s reputation –” a nod to the barkeep, who raised his arm in salute, “– is most richly deserved.” Leaning a bit on Gaersum’s arm, they headed back up to the Houses of Healing. A good lad, Roäc thought; a bit too quiet, but perhaps his pictures did the talking for him.  



	5. A Sense of Wonder

"I'm not a very good rider," he muttered, eyes downcast, flustered by her nearness and the unexpected invitation. 

"Yet you rode here from Gondor, and very well for a novice, so I've heard. I think you're skilled enough to ride out with me. It's not far." There was laughter in her voice, but not mockery; he looked up quickly. Her eyes were very blue, like the endless sky; her hair was thick and gold as honey. Like his. 

They spread out their blankets by a quiet pool. She had brought bread and cheese and a flask of apple cider that tickled and loosened the tongue. He had hoped to sketch some birds - he thought he recognized a kingfisher, from Faramir's description - but, somehow, that never happened. They talked and talked, more than he had ever talked to anyone, and then they kissed, and kissed again. 

He sketched her as she slept, curved lips, perfect breasts, rounded buttocks. As he drew he wondered, not for the first time, what he had ever done to deserve such happiness.

**CODA**

"I was a whore," he blurted.

She looked away, at the far green hills, at a hawking swooping overhead, at the horses feeding placidly under the beech trees, and then looked back at him. 

"You were what you were, and you are what you are - artist to the Court of Rohan. All things are made new, now: a new Age of the world, a new king for Gondor, and for Rohan. The old world has passed away like clouds before the wind."

_All thing are made new_ , Gaersum thought. _My old life has passed away, and I am reborn like a child._


	6. Bachelorette Party

Éowyn's eyes are nearly glassy with drink, and my sister Fridhu, the bride-to-be, is snoring softly, her head cradled in her arms on the table . Our new kinswoman, Queen Lothíriel, is still wide-eyed, though slightly the worse for exhaustion; she's been sipping mead all evening, adding water from the nearby flagon when she thinks no one is noticing. _I_ notice, but hold my tongue; it's generous enough for her to sit up with us this evening without having to join our muzzy-headedness in the morning. She's not quite used to how many of our customs include large amounts of strong drink. 

"What do you think might happen, " Éowyn says thickly, "if we put Fridhu away somewhere, and dressed you tomorrow morning as the bride instead? Wouldn't that be funny?"

Lothíriel giggles, trying not to look shocked. I pretend to yawn to cover my discomfort. We both saw Gaersum at the same moment, and I would say that both our hearts leapt. Fridhu was the first to breathe _oh, my_ , and I saw my sister fall in love. With that breath she laid her claim, just as we had always done - to an apron our mother had embroidered, to a kitten, to a handsome, well-muscled Rider: the first to lay the claim was the winner, and the other would step aside. 

It was not always Fridhu, of course; we took turns. She knew I loved gillyflowers, while she preferred heart's-ease, so the gillyflower apron was mine. I liked boy kittens, and let her claim the calico so I could have the tiger-striped. We shared that Rider. 

But Gaersum - it was almost as though he heard her whisper, turning to her like a flower to the sun. I saw them both melt; it was like the songs those Gondorian minstrels sing. He was always hers, and she would always be his - 

No point in even thinking about such things. I raise my tankard towards Éowyn; out of habit she raises hers in answer. "It wouldn't work," I tell her. "Fridu's got a very unusual birthmark, and Gaersum's studied her breasts enough to notice if it suddenly disappeared."

Lothíriel hiccups. I don't know if it's drink, or laughter, or both; Éowyn stares at her and then she, too, lets loose with her lovely belly-laugh, beating her tankard on the table. Soon I am laughing as well, tears streaming from my eyes. That wakes up Fridhu, who looks around blearily. 

"Wha's going on?" she mumbles.

"What's going on, little sister," I said, "is that we are going to trundle you off to bed."

"L'il sister. You always call me that, but I'm only an hour younger than you."

"That gives me an hour's worth more of good sense. Do you think Gaersum will want a bleary-eyed bride? He'll toss you in the cow byre and marry me instead."

_Gaersum_ , she breathes, her eyes aglow with unbridled joy, as the four of us link arms and stumble off toward our beds.


	7. Seven Deadly Sins - Gaersum

**Seven Deadly Sins** , by Edoraslass

**Greed**

Gaersum wanders through the shops on the Scribes' Street. The merchants are used to his presence, and do not banish him, though they know he has no coin. 

Richly coloured inks, earthenware jars filled with powder, needing only oil or water to make them into paint, pristine canvases and thick, creamy parchment; brushes, chalks, charcoal, pencils, quills – he wants them all. He wants to lock himself in his room with these glorious tools, paint and draw until he collapses from exhaustion. 

His fingers itch to grab one thing and flee. But he knows that he could not stop with just one. 

**Wrath**

It is winter, and work is scarce. They are almost out of firewood, the quarter-rent was due two days ago, and his mother's cough is worse today than it was yesterday. 

The neighbors will help, but they have little enough of their own. And he hates to ask. He berates himself for attacking that boy at the leather worker's shop – if he hadn't lost his temper, he would have a good, steady occupation, and they would not be burning the chairs to keep from freezing. _It isn't fair_ , he is still young enough to think. _I was only defending my mother's honour. Any of them would have done the same._

Gaersum is suddenly furious at his helplessness. He hates being at the mercy of other people, hates that he cannot provide for his mother. She coughs again, harsh and tearing, and pulls the threadbare blanket tighter around her shoulders. 

He swallows his anger, kisses his mother on the forehead, and goes to ask the woman next door if she can spare any marsh mallow syrup. As he is waiting for her to fetch the potion, he promises himself that his mother will not suffer this way through another winter. 

**Sloth**

Gaersum does not feel like drawing. He does not have to be at the house until evening, and his mother has no chores requiring his assistance. So he sprawls on the bench in front of their small home, boneless and lazy as a cat in the spring sun. 

His mother comes outside, chuckles softly, and runs one hand through his tangled curls. He smiles up at her, crosses his arms over his chest, stretches out his long legs, and closes his eyes. 

As he drifts into a light slumber, Gaersum wonders if the man on the edge of the courtyard is still watching him. 

**Lust**

Lust is the heavy clink of coins in the house mistress' palm, the furtive shame in the eyes of the men who come to him, the smell of bergamot, cheap wine, and raw spirits, the tickling of velvet or linen or leather against his skin. Lust is Gaersum's stock-in-trade, but he himself has felt no such urgency for many a month. He incites it, but no-one rouses it in him. 

>Then a tall, noble man, fair of face, speaks to him at the stables. Of course Gaersum has seen him watching from the shadows of the courtyard, knows full well who he is, but this does not signify. When the Lord Boromir smiles at him, Gaersum is knocked breathless by wanting, and lust is no longer simply a business transaction. 

**Gluttony**

Sometimes, Gaersum lies awake at night, thinking about Boromir kissing him. 

The solid heat of skin against skin as Boromir’s tongue carefully and thoroughly explores his mouth. The way Boromir can be teasing and demanding all at once. How Boromir’s arms tighten when Gaersum responds eagerly. 

He loves how his need is swiftly awakened by the barest touch of Boromir’s lips to his. He loves how Boromir gently guides him downward to the thin mattress, never allowing their mouths to part. Boromir tastes of wine or ale or mead; he smells of leather and sweat and cedar, and he fills Gaersum’s senses, making him light-headed. Each kiss makes him hungry for more; he takes all that he can, and it is not enough. 

**Envy**

Once Gaersum sees the Steward's sons riding into the City. Lord Faramir speaks; Boromir's answering laughter echoes off the stone, and he reaches out to clasp his brother's shoulder, grinning broadly. 

Jealousy rises within Gaersum, so fierce that the strength of it makes him nauseous. _I wish I could make him laugh so. I wish that he would be so easy when he is with me._

That night, he makes a sketch of Boromir laughing, and studies it closely. The envy returns, twisting his stomach, and he quickly feeds the drawing into the fire. He must be satisfied with what he has, and cannot dwell on what he does not. 

**Pride**

Gaersum is proud of many things: his mother, and how she has made a life for them; his talent for drawing, and the fact that people have begun to buy his work; that Boromir chose him for a lover out of all the men in Minas Tirith. 

He is not proud when he stands in front of the King of Rohan and takes Fridhu to wife; he is overwhelmed with happiness and slightly disbelieving that she accepted his suit, though his mother fairly shines with pride. 

When he holds the tiny, perfect boy in his arms and well-wishers say, “He is beautiful -you must be so proud!” he smiles, and often forgets to thank them, mesmerized by his son’s deep brown eyes. 


	8. Wondrous

"Mullein, or Beggar's Blanket, also called Clown's Lugwort or Candlewick Plant. Very tall, spike-like, with yellow flowers and fuzzy leaves," the herbalist said. The baby in its sling on her hip gurgled; the young man with the sketchpad paused to gaze at them adoringly. "Useful in the treatment of coughs and colds. Poultices of the leaves, soaked in hot vinegar, can reduce swelling of the joints. An infusion of the flowers in oil can cure earache." 

"Slow down!" Éowyn laughed. "I can't write that fast, not if we want to be able to read it. In any case, it's getting the likeness while it's in bloom that's important; we can add the words later."

"Well, it will never get drawn at all if my husband has to stop and gawk every time his son laughs," her companion replied. The artist grinned, resumed his work, sketching with quick, decisive strokes. 

"And why shouldn't he?" Faramir asked, strolling up from the paddock to join them. He slipped his arm around Eowyn's waist; she rested her head on his shoulder, smiling. "Flowers bloom and fade and bloom again, but a child's laugh - that is a miracle that's new and wondrous each time."


End file.
